


The Punch Line

by arrowinthesky (restfulsky5)



Series: The Batman Habit [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Concussions, Flirting, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Rehabilitation, Retired Bruce Wayne, Retirement, Second Chances, Secret Identity, Secret Identity Fail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 07:26:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18566701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/restfulsky5/pseuds/arrowinthesky
Summary: As soon as his fist connects with the Joker’s face, bending the other man’s neck back like a broken straw, but not breaking anything, he regrets ever following the new, improved version of his worst enemy.Part One of The Batman Habit Series, a collection of “Bruce Wayne just can’t help himself” scenarios. Various Pairings. This particular fic is Bruce/Joker.





	The Punch Line

**Author's Note:**

> Although I’m tagging this as Batman All Media Types, there is a teensy flavor of Nolan Bat here, but only b/c Rachel is mentioned very very briefly—I do think you could get away with imagining whatever Bat/Joker combination you prefer. :)
> 
> Joker is rehabilitated yet he remembers his past. He’s also kept quite a bit of his sass. ;)
> 
> Hope you enjoy the read!

 

 

Bruce isn’t looking for trouble tonight—or any night. But when he sees the familiar tall, lean man with green eyes weaving his way one evening through Gotham’s crowded sidewalks wearing jeans and a t-shirt and looking so normally awkward and decent when he shouldn’t, the stunted, quiet life he’s been unwillingly living gets under his skin. And he’s overcome with the urge to punch something. Violently.

 

He hasn’t been Batman in nearly a year, two years after he’d dropped the Joker off at Arkham. He’d shelved the cape and cowl, the risk to continue as the vigilante too great. Gordon continues to add to the patrols at night not in an effort to catch criminals, but him. The Bat. Even now.

 

He’d had too many close calls towards the end of his career, the last one resulting in a broken leg and wrist, nearly irreparable damage to his liver, bruised vertebrae, and a nasty concussion. Alfred had put his foot down, and Bruce, seeing that he had months of recovery ahead, resigned himself to a new way of living. So he’s kept his nose in his family’s company, forsaking what burns in his blood, and continues to curate his playboy persona, keeping the cops off his trail. Ever since his retirement, he’s noticed his body’s shortcomings more than ever. This is permanent, unless he wants to endanger the people he tries to help.

 

Despite retiring as the Batman, he’s allowed Alfred to maintain the cave of his own accord, humoring the old man in an effort to keep his own conscience cleared. He hasn’t shadowed anyone since he’d taken Leslie’s concerns for his physical health seriously. He hasn’t profiled a single criminal. He hasn’t even looked at a police report, let alone eavesdrop on conversations between officers in the department. He hasn’t spoken to Gordon except for the one time as Bruce Wayne in the line at the cafe off Broadway to get coffee. He’d paid for the commissioner’s coffee—for the month—and left before the man could thank him.

 

But his vigilance has imprinted on him, especially when it comes to the Joker. His feet have a will of their own and, within minutes, he’s there. Standing behind the Joker, trailing him. Slinking into the shadows like a coward.

 

He recalls the name Joker gave himself. Jack. Jack Napier. It doesn’t match the face Arkham supplied him, the surgery courtesy of Wayne Enterprises, the “new him” that they’d plastered all over the tabloids. It doesn’t match the face in his nightmares, the one that controls his life—and his nights—still, leaving him an incurable insomniac. He can’t remember the last time he’d slept even five hours at once. He gets three, maybe four hours of sleep, with the aid of Alfred’s chamomile tea. He won’t take the medication Leslie gives him, for fear he won’t be able to stop taking it someday.

 

But maybe this can finally give him peace. He repeats the lie to himself, the bitter truth that it’s time he faces his demons head on. And what better way than this? Karma’s finally on his side.

 

“Mr. Napier,” Bruce calls out, proud of the way his voice carries, strong in the wind yet vulnerable like Wayne.

 

The Joker comes to a halt and slowly turns around, his face frozen. His eyes, expressionless, flicker over Bruce’s face, the slightly rumpled suit. There is no recognition. No curiosity. No fear. No shame. Simply nothing.

 

Bruce ignores this—all the signs that tell him this is Napier the quiet civilian, not the Joker, the psychopath—and strides towards him. Leslie has warned him about getting in future altercations, but he hasn’t had this rush of adrenaline since—since he can’t remember when.

 

It feels good. Really good, and the power surging through his body works in his favor, pulling him forward with a momentum he’d once craved.

 

“Yes?” Joker asks, gaze questioning.

 

But Bruce isn’t. Confused, that is. He knows exactly what he wants to do.

 

“You bastard,” Bruce says—and swings.

 

The Joker doesn’t know what hit him. Bruce isn’t sure, either. As soon as he swings his arm around, his shoulder screams in painful protest. His right hook isn’t what it used to be. A single year of inactivity, and he’s defeated before his hand reaches its mark.

 

Pathetic.

 

As soon as his fist connects with the Joker’s face, bending the other man’s neck back like a broken straw, but not breaking anything, he regrets ever following the new, improved version of his worst enemy.

 

He should’ve gone home, instead of wandering Gotham aimlessly.

 

The Joker cries out, but Bruce, other than the flash of panic on his face, doesn’t see what happens to the man he’s just attacked without cause. Bruce stumbles and in his peripheral vision, sees a fist swinging towards him as if in slow motion. It hits Bruce’s forehead with a sickening smack.

 

Pain shatters his skull, like a million pieces of glass splintering through his skin and bone, digging fast and deep. Balance thrown off, he careens to the side. He tries to catch himself, but without anything to hold onto, he crashes into the other man, who tumbles into the wall, hard, and falls.

 

Bruce curses, his flailing limbs making impact with the Joker’s bony form. They land on each other, but Bruce’s head bounces off the pavement.

 

He blacks out from the pain. Maybe for a moment. Maybe two. Stunned, Bruce gulps a breath. Fuck—he can hardly believe that the man who’d caused his ultimate fall—has just broken another.

 

The body underneath him writhes like a caterpillar, its back hunching, as if to push him off. Bruce is too winded to help. He can’t think clearly enough to move away, but with some effort, he turns his neck, his cheek scraping against the fabric of Joker’s shirt. It makes the other man seem all too human, and Bruce, who is not too proud to admit his mistake in coming after him, more so.

 

He blinks up at the dark sky with one eye, bracing himself against any light. His vision blurs, distorting his sight, the stars into misshapen, bright blobs that hurt his eyes. He squints and rubs at them until he can at least make out the walls on either side of them.

 

The alley. They’re in the alley. He shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Shadows make the walls seem like they’re pressing in on them. They’re in the alley, he repeats to himself. Alone. Probably best, given that he’s just assaulted a man.

 

He belatedly registers the Joker has stopped moving. An old instinct finally kicks in, and he takes stock of his body so he can then take care of the man underneath him, if he’s injured. Bruce drags his hand down from his head to his chest. He’s on his side like a discarded doll, this stupid attack doing no favors for his knee, which is twisted underneath him, pinned beneath the Joker’s leg. He’s bruised all over, body entwined with the Joker. It’s ironic, given that his life had ended when the psychopath killed Rachel.

 

The memory hurts. He curses, grinding his teeth, and tries to shift his body to a more comfortable position, but finds that he’s so tangled with the Joker, he can’t move. At least his other leg had been the only part of him that had directly hit the pavement. He blinks, absently rubbing his aching temple.

 

Right. His leg—and his fucking head.

 

Leslie is going to kill him. It’s his penance, he thinks. But he can’t stay here, no matter how complacent he’s become. He tries to slide his body off of the Joker’s again, but another agonizing wave of pain rips through his skull. Refusing to cry out, he bites his lip until he tastes blood.

 

Blood. Blood. _The Joker._

 

The body underneath him impatiently pushes against his back, something the man says warbling in his ears.

 

 _What?_ Bruce tries to ask, but he can’t hear himself.

 

He’d taken a harder fall than he’d thought. Oh—and there was that punch the Joker slipped in. Self-defense, of course. He stiffens and squeezes his eyes closed, controlling his breathing with great effort, willing the pain ratcheting through is skull to fade.

 

 _Give me a minute,_ he grinds out through clenched teeth. At least he thinks he does. The sound of his voice is muffled, like he has cotton in his ears.

 

He feels a hand on his head—the Joker’s hand—guiding him slowly to the ground, after the other man’s slim form slips out from underneath his crumbled form. Bruce, the fall having slammed the brakes on his body and mind, lets him manipulate his limbs without opposition.

 

He waits a moment, the cold seeping up through his clothing, hoping the man will just leave him alone by some miracle. That maybe—just maybe—if he doesn’t look like he cares—the Joker won’t care, either. And walk away. When he hears nothing—no voice, no footsteps—he reluctantly pries his eyes open, keeping them half-lidded against his headache.

 

The Joker stares down at him with a wary expression, and not the other way around, like it should be.

 

Shame wraps its cold fingers around his heart. He’d hit someone. Someone supposedly innocent, for now. Funny how rehabilitation gives anyone a free ride, even a psychopath.

 

He accepts that he’s bitter—he’s bitter about many things. The Joker should be the one on the ground, not him. But he isn’t. That he is the one on the ground just makes this situation a thousand times worse.

 

He’s shaken, strangely embarrassed and angry all at once, and momentarily confused at what he should do. He can’t move, whether it’s from his broken body being thrown around like a discarded rag, or simply the shock that he’s just embarrassed himself in front of this man after a clear loss of control. Or, maybe, his own complacency. Or—a combination of all three.

 

It doesn’t matter what it is. Not really. He doesn’t try to pick himself up. He just wants to stay there on the cold hard ground, wallowing in self-pity that the Joker still looks young and has a new face and a new chance at living, while Bruce remains a bitter, old man who can’t move beyond his past.

 

The Joker’s mouth moves, his eyes filled with worry, but Bruce hears nothing. Whatever the Joker is saying to him sounds far away, muffled by the proverbial cotton stuffed in his ears.

 

The Joker leans in closer to him. As he tries to read his lips, his ears start to ring. He shakes his head a little, at first to check his hearing, then in an attempt to get away from the hand that is trying to check his skull for injury.

 

The Joker holds his jaw firmly, to his chagrin. Bruce freezes, squinting hard at the Joker’s lips.

 

_I think you might have a concussion. I—I’m sorry._

 

Bruce catches the last of what he’s saying and fills in the rest with his own imagination. But it is hard to believe Joker had just apologized, and sincerely.

 

The Joker’s mouth moves. He says something else. Bruce strains to hear him, to make out the words, but there is nothing, no other sound but the ringing in his ears.

 

Frustrated he can’t understand, he says the first thing that comes to his mind. _You killed my best friend._

 

It’s odd to not hear it word for word, and he says it again, finally making out some other sound than the blasted ringing.

 

 _Rachel_ , he adds.

 

The Joker’s mouth drops open. _Mr Wayne?_ he asks, his eyes searching his face for the familiar features of Wayne—a confident, suave smile. Not the washout with the ragged beard, tired eyes, and hollowed-out cheeks.

 

 _Yeah_ , he retorts. _That’s me._

 

 _You look_ … the man scrunches his face, words fading into the night.

 

Water drips from down the alley, mesmerizing Bruce in the silence.

 

 _Old_ , he finally fills in for him, the bitter taste of the word making him cringe.

 

Bruce tries to pull away from the Joker, but the younger man holds his arm firmly. Bruce doesn’t respond, unwilling to struggle against his hold or do anything that looks like he’s fighting back. He’s done enough damage.

 

 _Not old._ The Joker frowns, running his hand gently around the back to inspect it. “Different. You’re hurt.”

 

Finally. Sound.

 

Bruce rubs one ear, grateful for the sound, even if it’s the Joker’s nasally voice. “A scratch.” Bruce says through clenched teeth.

 

The Joker blinks, holding up Bruce’s arm. There’s a slash of red on it. He has no idea from what.

 

“You call this a scratch?” Joker says. _You’re bleeding._

 

Damn. His ears are ringing again. _I am?_

The Joker lets go of him carefully. _And you’re not old,_ he mutters, and he stands up. _Just...different._

 

It’s a lie. Bruce says nothing and hopes, again, that the man will leave him alone.

 

He has no such luck. The Joker holds out his hand for Bruce to take. _I’ll help you._

 

Bruce winces, hand to his ear. _What?_

 

The Joker’s jaw clenches. _Let. Me. Help._

 

But Bruce can’t accept his help. _I attacked you._

 

Joker bites his lip. _You forgot. I hit back. You are the one still on the ground._

 

Bruce snorts, then brings his hands to his aching head with a groan. _Shit_.

 

The Joker reaches for him. _Let me help you._

 

Bruce flinches away. _Don’t. Touch. Me._

 

The Joker freezes, then nods and backs away, and stands there. Just stands there.

 

Like he has nothing better to do. And—maybe he doesn’t. Maybe that’s the life he’s been reduced to.

 

If so, they finally have something in common.

 

He closes his eyes, resigned. _Leave_. He breathes out shakily, knowing he won’t. _Please_.

 

_And let some cop find you, bringing you to me? No, thanks._

 

The admission pulls him out of his pity party. He blinks up at him. By a miracle, he hears voices approaching. But he can’t figure out how to handle the situation—Joker, by rights, should call the police on him.

 

 _Do you want the press?_ the Joker asks, glancing warily behind him. _I don’t, and I don’t think you actually want this in the tabloids, either._

 

Bruce pauses, the question throwing him. But the Joker’s right. Neither of them needs unwanted attention.

 

 _Fine_. He holds out his hand. The Joker takes it, and pulls him upright.

 

He weaves on his feet. Leslie had been right—he can’t handle even a single fucking fight.

 

“Maybe I should take you to the hospital,” the Joker says.

 

_No fucking way._

 

“Yeah?” He peers down his nose at Bruce, and, carefully steps away from his reach. “Then how are you walking out of here?”

 

Bruce frowns. “By walking, obviously.”

 

The Joker snorts. “Never knew Bruce Wayne was such a smart ass. You’re more like a dumbass. You sure you don’t have a concussion?”

 

“Thanks.” He pauses, wincing as he gently presses, by accident, a sore spot on the side of his head. “I think.”

 

“Hospital,” the Joker says, taking him by the elbow.

 

“No.”

 

The Joker’s eyes darken. _I can’t have a lawsuit on my hands._

 

_I attacked you._

 

 _They won’t look at it that way, but I’ll have to take my chances,_ the Joker mumbles after a beat. _You need medical care worse than I need to hide._

 

Bruce has to know. _Are you sorry?_

 

Joker freezes.

 

 _Are you?_ Bruce repeats.

 

An unmistakable look of pain washes over Joker’s face, and Bruce, for reasons he can’t quite comprehend, feels like an ass.

 

 _Every second of every day,_ Joker mutters. He pulls Bruce onto the sidewalk and whistles for a taxi.

 

Bruce is so out of it, he doesn’t know he’s in the cab until the Joker crawls in after him. Joker shuts the door, silencing the sounds of the city.

 

“Shit,” Bruce mutters, his head falling back onto the seat behind him.

 

Thankfully, the taxi driver doesn’t bother to check who just hopped into his cab. “Where to?”

 

“Gotham General,” Joker says, his voice lower than Bruce has ever heard it.

 

The driver nods. “Emergency?”

 

“No,” Bruce says.

 

“Yes,” Joker growls at the same time.

 

“Which is it?” the driver asks, tapping his fingers on the wheel.

 

Bruce sighs. Everyone knows him there. It’s hardly keeping a low profile. “No. Not there.”

 

Joker lifts a brow. “You object to the best hospital in Gotham?”

 

“Yes, I do. They’ll charge too much.”

 

“So you’re a stingy billionaire. Why am I not surprised?”

 

“Where to?” the driver asks with an exasperated breath.

 

Bruce flexes his jaw, making a decision that will probably be his undoing. “The clinic on Crime Alley.”

 

Joker makes nothing short of a disbelieving laugh. “What?”

 

“Dr. Thompkins. I trust her.”

 

Joker peers at his face. “You hit your head harder than I thought.”

 

“Why do you say that?”

 

“I trust the people there about as far as I’d throw my shoe,” Joker mutters. “Don’t fall asleep, okay? That’s the worst thing you can do after a concussion.”

 

“I’m touched you even care.”

 

Joker says nothing but watches Bruce like a hawk the rest of the way.

 

It’s unnerving to be under Joker’s surveillance. More unsettling when he can’t open the door once they arrive.

 

He has no muscle control. He can’t move his fingers beyond a slight curl, or operate his arm the way he needs to in order to open the door. Either arm. He stares at his hands, feeling an unfamiliar telltale panic rising in his chest. “I can’t—can’t— _fuck_.”

 

Joker frowns. “Wait,” he says, and gets out, jogging around the taxi to open the door for him.

 

Bruce is about to get out of the car when the driver reminds him about payment. It takes Bruce a moment to understand what he’s saying.

 

And even then, he can’t get his hand in his pocket. He can’t make his fingers move, to curl, to anything. What the hell is wrong with him?

 

“I got it,” Joker mumbles, and shoves a handful of bills towards the driver.

 

“Thanks.” The driver jerks a thumb towards Bruce. “That Wayne?”

 

“His doppelgänger.”

 

The driver peers at Bruce. “Yeah, this guy looks like shit. Definitely not Wayne the asshole.”

 

“I say the same thing every day when I look in the mirror,” Bruce deadpans. “I’m not Wayne the Asshole. Makes me feel a hell of a lot better about myself. You should try it.”

 

Joker snorts. “Come on, Funny Guy,” he says, grabbing Bruce by the arm. He drags him out of the cab and onto the sidewalk.

 

Joker closes the door. The taxi lurches forward, the sudden motion causing Bruce to keen sideways.

 

“Damnit,” Joker growls, grabbing Bruce by the arm and yanking him forward.

 

Bruce stumbles into him. “I’ll pay you back,” he mumbles into his shoulder.

 

“Don’t bother.” Joker pulls him towards the entrance of the clinic. “I can handle a puny taxi ride. I made an extra hundred last week.”

 

“You shouldn’t carry it around with you like that,” he mumbles, stumbling and falling into Joker’s side.

 

“I’m touched you even care,” Joker deadpans.

 

“You’re still a funny one.”

 

Joker stiffens. “I try not to be.”

 

Heaving a breath, Bruce stares at him. “Why? Why not be funny?

 

Joker stops by the door, which slide open, keeping Bruce upright. “Only an idiot would ask me that. Are you really that stupid?”

 

“I actually have a high IQ.”

 

Joker stares at him, licking his lips.

 

“What?” Bruce asks.

 

“You probably paid for those scores.”

 

He nods, the motion loose and uncoordinated. “You’re half-right—I _could_ have bought myself that 190. But I didn’t.”

 

Joker laughs, eyes dancing over his face. “190? You may be easy on the eyes, Wayne, but you’re such a liar.”

 

Bruce pouts. “You don’t believe me.”

 

Joker’s mouth twitches. “You attacked a psychopath in the dark. Alone.”

 

“Point taken.”

 

They stare at each other, passing measured glances, as if they are about to be paired as lab partners in a high school biology class. Bruce would be amused if he didn’t feel like shit.

 

“Well, then.” Bruce breaks eye contact first and moves forward, painfully aware of a headache spreading into his neck. He squints at the faces of the people, trying to find Leslie.

 

Joker says suddenly, “You’re too pale.”

 

“I’ll be fine.” Bruce’s gaze flickers over the people in the room. “We’ll try her office first.”

 

“You don’t wait like a normal person?”

 

“I wouldn’t know normal,” Bruce says flatly.

 

“Obviously,” Joker snorts.

 

“This way—” He stops, thoughts blank. He can’t remember which way her office is. But he knows where to go—doesn’t he?

 

“Wayne?” Joker murmurs. “Which way?”

 

“I, uh…” Sweat pours off his forehead into his eyes. He swipes uselessly at it.

 

“You were here before, right?” Joker asks.

 

All the fucking time, he thinks to himself. Or at least when Alfred couldn’t get to him in time.

 

“Yeah.” The room tilts, and his knees buckle. “Fu—” he breathes out.

 

Joker catches him by the elbow. “Where,” he murmurs by his ear, holding up a surprisingly strong arm. “Before you attract a crowd.”

 

Shit, but there are a few people staring at him. And Joker.

 

But mostly him.

 

Great. The last thing he needs is to be noticed.

 

“I’m not—not sure.” He swallows, finds the hall that looks vaguely familiar. He nods his head. “There.”

 

Joker bites his lower lip. “If you say so.” He drags Bruce down the hall. “You’re a lightweight, Wayne.”

 

Not really, he wants to argue.

 

He sends him a cocky grin. “I might have had a drink earlier.”

 

He wishes he’d had a drink earlier. Maybe he would’ve been mellowed out enough to ignore the Joker by the alley. The Joker packs a pretty punch, rehabilitated or not.

 

Joker’s mouth firms, and he looks away. “Blue door?”

 

“Uh-huh.” He closes his eyes, allowing Joker to manipulate his body and prop him up against the office door. His head flops forward at first, until Joker braces his neck with his entire arm.

 

Like he had _him_ during the interrogation about Harvey and Rachel. But gentler. And oddly...careful.

 

Joker uses his other hand to knock on the door. Bruce snickers.

 

Joker freezes.

 

Bruce laughs. “Look at us.”

 

Joker turns his neck to look warily at him. “What?”

 

He grins loosely. “I’m having a strange feeling of deja vu.”

 

“What?”

 

“Deja vu.” He pauses at the look of confusion on his face. “You. Me.”

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Joker mutters. “I’ve never even been in the same room with you before.”

 

Bruce nods. “Sure.”

 

“You’re weird, Bruce Wayne.” Joker tears his eyes away from Bruce. He knocks again.

 

No answer.

 

Bruce’s eyes roll back in his head. He sighs, slurring out, “If she isn’t here, we’ll wait.”

 

“Not sure that’s a good idea, Hot Shot.” Joker knocks again.

 

Bruce stares at him through half-lidded eyes. “You’re very sarcastic.”

 

“Kinda hard not to be with you around.”

 

He nods. Or tries to. “I have that effect on people.”

 

“No kidding.” Joker’s mouth twists into a smile.

 

Bruce exhales slowly and closes his eyes. “I’m not sure—“ His stomach knots. “I feel sick. A-and I see—I see two or three of you.”

 

“Concussion.”

 

“Yep.”

 

Another moment passes before Leslie opens it. Her jaw tenses the moment she sees Joker. “If you need to see me, stop at the desk for an appointment.”

 

Joker shakes his head, points at Bruce. “Not me. Him.”

 

Leslie peers around the doorway, eyes widening. “Bruce?” she exclaims. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Need your help,” Bruce mumbles.

 

She stares at him, then the Joker. “Are you hurt?”

 

“I’m not,” Joker says, looking impatient. “He is.”

 

“Bring him in,” she says, peering down the hall. “Did anyone see you?”

 

“Kinda hard not to with him around.” Joker guides Bruce inside.

 

Leslie closes the door behind them. “Hmm. That’s a little like the pot calling the kettle black. You’ll behave?”

 

Groping for the wall but not finding it, Bruce sinks down into the nearest seat with Joker’s help.

 

Joker shrugs. “If I don’t, someone will send me to prison.”

 

“What happened?” she asks.

 

“Uh—I hi—”

 

“I fell,” Bruce interrupts.

 

Leslie doesn’t look like she believes the story—it is too simplistic coming from _him_ —but she grabs a penlight on her desk. She comes over to Bruce and holds his head up with one hand, gently, peering into his eyes with the other.

 

He flinches from the light. “Ow,” he complains.

 

She turns it off and, after checking his skull for injury, dims the light in the room. “Blurred vision?”

 

He can hardly make out her face now. “Uh-huh.”

 

“Headache? Lack of coordination? Balance?”

 

“Yep, yep and yep.”

 

She sighs. “You have a bad concussion. But I think you knew that, already.”

 

He closes his eyes. “Mmph.”

 

“I’m ordering some tests. How hard did you hit your head?”

 

“Dunno.”

 

“Hard enough,” Joker supplies.

 

She sighs. “You two are a wealth of information. Your face,” she says to Joker. “You were fighting?”

 

Bruce painfully opens his eyes. Had they been? “Uh-huh?”

 

“Yes or no?” Leslies asks.

 

“Yes.” Joker says, crossing his arms. “It wasn’t my fault. Mostly.”

 

“He's right. I hit first.”

 

Leslie cocks her head, frowning at Bruce. “I told you—and Alfred—that it can’t happen again.”

 

Dismay washes over Bruce. And shame. Alfred will be disappointed with him, too. “I know,” he whispers, leaning forward to lean his head on his hands. “I know, Leslie.”

 

“What’s done is done. Just don’t fall asleep.”

 

But… “I’m tired,” Bruce complains, eyes screwed shut. “I haven’t slept…” He yawns. “Just a minute.”

 

“Not just a minute,” she says, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Bruce, you of all people know you can’t sleep in this condition.”

 

He grunts. “Won’t be a problem.”

 

“But will this be a problem? Now that he knows?”

 

He blinks. “Huh?”

 

Leslie looks at Joker and then Bruce. “He knows...right? That’s why you were fighting?”

 

“That I’m...I’m…” Bruce thinks he knows what she’s insinuating, but his mind is too fuzzy to be sure. “An idiot?”

 

“You’re not an idiot, Bruce,” Leslie says softly.

 

“They think so.”

 

“Who?”

 

He grins sloppily. “Ev’ryone.”

 

Joker rolls his eyes. “Lady, he’s a real mess. He couldn’t even walk here on his own. I doubt he can answer your weird questions.”

 

“I see,” she says. Turning to Bruce, he asks, “So he knows you’re...you’re just a little slow at coming to your full potential.”

 

“And now it’s worse,” he whispers, his heart pinching tightly.

 

“Worse?”

 

“I—I think my head’s broken,” he whines. He’s even more disappointed in himself now. Alfred won’t be happy that he’s dragged the Joker into this mess, too.

 

Leslie sighs. “You’ll have to stay in here until I come back with a wheelchair. We’ll try to keep this quiet.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Leslie frowns. “Don’t be. I’m just glad you’re here, where I can watch you. I only have a few appointments in the office today and I can reschedule those.” She turns to Joker. “I’ll be back, and I’ll call Alfred.”

 

“No,” Bruce protests.

 

“Alfred?” Joker repeats.

 

“His family,” Leslie says. “And I’m calling him.”

 

Bruce sulks. “Fine.”

 

Leslie smiles gently. “I’ll get those tests ordered and find a nurse. Watch him while I’m gone, please?” she asks Joker. “Don’t let him fall asleep.”

 

Joker is quiet. “What do I do if he does?”

 

“Don’t let him get to that point.”

 

“But what if he does?” Joker repeats.

 

“‘But what if he does?’” Bruce mimics. “Slap him?”

 

She frowns at Bruce. “Hardly.”

 

“Kiss him?” he supplies.

 

Joker’s brows hike to the ceiling.

 

Leslie shakes her head, mouth twisting into a reluctant smile. “If it helps. I better go.” She looks firmly at Bruce. “Be good.”

 

He awkwardly places a palm against his heart, but his arm feels too heavy to keep it there, and it falls, uncooperative and onto his lap. “I’m hurt. When am I never?”

 

She smiles. “You’re incorrigible. You have your phone?”

 

Bruce shakes his head from side-to-side very slowly. “Don’t know?”

 

She sighs. “Can you check your pockets?”

 

Bruce attempts to slip his hand in his pocket, but misses, repeatedly. “Nope.”

 

Joker watches him quietly. “I’ll check. It could be there. I didn’t see anything on the ground before we left the alley.”

 

Bruce frowns. He’d looked? Why hadn’t he thought of that?

 

She nods. “Do that. I’ll keep mine with me. Call me if things worsen.” She hesitates, then gives Joker a steady look. “I know we’ve had our differences, but I think—I hope—you’re turning a corner. Thank you.”

 

Joker shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Not like I have anything better to do.”

 

She leaves, and Bruce stares at Joker, who stares back at him.

 

“Now what?” Bruce asks, his eyes feel weighted. They close of their own accord.

 

“Wayne?”

 

Joker’s voice sounds far away, but kind of nice. He smiles. “Hmm?”

 

“Concussion, remember?”

 

His training kicks in and, with great effort, he pries his eyes open. He wants nothing more than to forget he’s here with the Joker and, then, to go back home, where he can sleep. But he feels strangely as if he was outside of his own body.

 

“You with me, Wayne?”

 

He peers at Joker, his eyes stinging with the fatigue and the dust of the alley. He hopes Leslie doesn’t mind if he takes that nap. He’s having a difficult time obeying the doctor’s orders and maintaining the playboy act at the same time.

 

“If you don’t mind,” he slurs. “I’m gonna sleep.”

 

“I do mind,” Joker says in that sing-song voice he remembers. “Pockets. Remember?”

 

Bruce rolls his eyes. “If you must.”

 

Joker slips his hand into Bruce’s left pocket and fishes around. Bruce squirms in his seat, and Joker’s hand sinks to the bottom of his pocket, brushing his thigh.

 

The touch is electrifying and, unable to sit still, Bruce shifts again, forcing Joker’s hand to the side. Although he’s expecting it, he jolts. “Kinky,” he smirks.

 

Joker stills, throwing him a dark look.

 

“Not what you expected?” Bruce asks innocently.

 

“No,” Joker says hotly, withdrawing his hand. “It’s a little...small.”

 

Bruce scowls. “Hey.”

 

Joker’s eyes flicker with impatience. “Let me look in the other pocket.”

 

Bruce shifts his body so he has easier access. Joker is so near, he can’t help but stare at the man’s face, the eyes too serious to be the psychopath’s, the lashes that flutter as he works his hand into Bruce’s other pocket.

 

Joker isn’t what he’d expected. He’s a sullen man, mellowed from what he once was. Mellow—with a similar, wicked sense of humor underneath that mask of sadness as before.

 

He wonders just how afraid Jack really is that he’ll slip up and cause trouble for himself. He wonders what makes up his life now. If there is anything that brings him happiness—or is it complete misery.

 

And, if it is the latter, how much had Bruce added to that misery by attacking him?

 

Joker frowns and uses both hands to yank the cellphone from his pocket. He turns it over in his hands, fingers running over the glossy sides. “What is this?”

 

“The latest and greatest iPhone ever, of course,” Bruce states.

 

Joker’s eyes gleam. “I’ve never heard of it.”

 

He looks at him smugly. “Not even on the market, yet.”

 

“It looks—perfect. Shiny. Expensive.”

 

Bruce smiles vaguely. “That’s what Patricia said, too.”

 

“Patricia?”

 

“The blonde I think I’m supposed to go on a date with tonight.”

 

“You think?”

 

He rubs his aching head, wincing. “I’m feeling a little fuzzy-headed to know for sure.”

 

“How many drinks did you have earlier?”

 

He yawns. “Think Sunny would mind—”

 

“Sunny? I thought you were dating Patricia.”

 

“Patty? Sunny? What’s the difference?” Waving a hand, Bruce dismisses his confusion. “I think I’ll have the limo pick them up and take them to the play with friends, instead? I’d hate to disappoint.”

 

Joker blinks. “Unbelievable,” he says after a moment and hands him the phone. “Do you get things like this, uh, the phone, a lot?”

 

Bruce settles back into his chair, closing his eyes with a quirk of his lips. “You have no idea.”

 

oOo

 

Several moments pass before either speak again. Joker has been watching Wayne, who looks increasingly pale. He feels guilty about hitting him, although it had been in self-defense—and panic. But what had Dr. Thompkins meant, telling Wayne it couldn’t happen _again_?

 

Does Wayne make it a habit of picking fights? It makes no sense.

 

“She shouldn’t have taken this long,” Wayne mumbles, shifting his body sideways in the chair, drawing one leg up under the other. He leans on his elbow, head in his hand, staring at the door. “Where is she?”

 

“This is Friday night. More crime, more knife-related injuries.”

 

“Hmm. Sounds like you know what you’re talking about.” Wayne shuts his eyes.

 

“I might.” He pauses. “I’ve had to come here a few times. People don’t like me walking around, free.”

 

Wayne is unnervingly quiet.

 

Joker pokes his shoe with his foot. “Hey.”

 

“Stop it,” Wayne grumbles.

 

“You can’t sleep.”

 

“No? Just watch me,” Wayne says tiredly.

 

Joker frowns. He doesn’t know why he’s sticking around, except to make sure Wayne doesn’t call the police on him and make up a fake story about him attacking Wayne in the alley. Not that he expects the man to be that conniving, but he has to be careful these days.

 

Besides, he has nothing better to do. And Wayne is interesting.

 

Really interesting.

 

He lives his life as normally as he can. He crosses path with no one else other than the people he works for at the homeless shelter, and the homeless and jobless, themselves. And, occasionally, the cops checking in on him that he isn’t causing trouble. His life is predictable and safe, if not a little boring. But it has to be, or he’ll be sent back to Arkham.

 

Wayne is a harmless animal, but also embodies the fun he hasn’t had in a long time. And he feels guilty about the past. Wayne has a right to punch his lights out if he wants to. He remembers what happened to Rachel.

 

He remembers it all. He takes meds so he can live with himself each day, and is more—

 

 _Fuck_. Wayne’s breathing had evened out, his face completely relaxed.

 

Alarmed, Joker nudges his foot again. “Hey,” he says. “I mean it. You can’t fall asleep. It’s too dangerous.”

 

Wayne’s handsome features remain peaceful, unblemished by his interruption.

 

Joker rubs the back of his neck, thinking uneasily about the consequences of just leaving Wayne here and fleeing the scene. Although he doesn’t want to deal with the drama of Wayne’s injury, he knows from experience that Thompkins’s bark is worse than her bite, but he can’t get on her bad side. She has a direct link to the Commissioner. And probably Batman, if he ever came out of hiding.

 

His plan, in the beginning at least, had been to cooperate with the psychiatrists at Arkham and rehabilitate. Hoping, that eventually, the Bat would come find him a new man. But now that he is rehabilitated, he hasn’t cared as much about the Bat as he thought he would. He just wants to start wanting to live again. Find something happy. So far, he hasn’t had any luck.

 

“Wayne,” he growls in his ear.

 

The playboy mumbles unintelligibly, but otherwise ignores him.

 

If Wayne doesn’t wake up—if he slips into a coma or worse—before the doctor returns, he’ll be in a shitload of trouble.

 

He’d been having a decent day. No cops. No one bothering him. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

 

He can’t let Wayne sleep. He sees only one option without hurting the man again. He knows Wayne had been joking—but what else is there to do?

 

He towers over Wayne, staring down at him in a moment of indecision. Biting his lip, he’s certain he’s lost his mind for a second time and leans down, covering Wayne’s mouth with a determination that surprises even him.

 

Wayne’s warm lips are a familiar mix of sweat and blood, things Joker has tasted before on his lovers, but as soon as he starts to kiss the playboy, he knows he’s lost.

 

Wayne’s mouth is pliant and plump, giving in to Joker’s lips. He wants more, and he deepens the kiss, startling but not stopping when Wayne’s mouth begins to move under his.

 

His heart leaps in his chest. He breathes raggedly, when Wayne—the man who has a date with a supermodel almost every night— kisses him back.

 

Unthinkingly, Joker deepens the kiss, telling himself he wants to make sure Wayne is fully awake. Nothing else. Not that he’s enjoying it. No.

 

It works. Wayne groans, clutches at his arms to bring him closer. Joker, fighting panic that he’s in an absurd situation he never wanted to be in but now wants to continue, slips his tongue inside Wayne’s mouth, and kisses him—hard.

 

He hears shuffling outside the door and lurches back.

 

Wayne smiles sleepily. “Hmmm, I must be dreaming. You kissed me.”

 

“Sorry.” Joker stumbles back, his mind short-circuiting when Wayne smiles like he’d actually enjoyed it.

 

Wayne, his eyes still closed, licks his lips. “Don’t stop.”

 

Don’t stop?

 

What the fuck? This isn’t….this can’t happen.

 

He needs to put as much space between them as possible. He takes another step back.

 

Wayne’s hand trembles as he touches his lips. His eyes suddenly widen on Joker. “I’m not dreaming. You actually kissed me. Why?”

 

Joker’s gaze drops on his mouth. “You said to.”

 

Wayne’s face twists in confusion. “What? Not that I’m mad. I’m not.”

 

Wayne isn’t mad. Why isn’t Wayne mad? The concussion? “To wake you up.”

 

Wayne blinks owlishly at him. “I’m not sure it worked. Do it again?”

 

Joker’s mouth falls open. “You gotta be kidding—”

 

A gunshot cracks in the air. “Fuck!” Wayne exclaims, sliding like a sack of potatoes off the chair and onto the floor, covering his face with his hands.

 

Joker spins around, eyes narrowing on the door. The shot sounded close. Maybe down the hallway. He creeps forward, but sees nothing under the door, not even a shadow.

 

“Whassit?” Wayne slurs out, peering out from behind his hands.

 

“Shh,” he hushes him.

 

“But what—”

 

He twists his neck around and glares at him. “Be quiet,” he hisses.

 

Wayne’s curled in a ball on the floor. “But what’s—”

 

“Can you just stop talking?”

 

Wayne waves a hand, closing his eyes with a sigh. “Fine.”

 

Satisfied the playboy will be quiet, Joker makes his way to the door, where he stops in indecision. He bites his lip. He really can’t afford to get involved in whatever it is happening outside. But he has Wayne in here, and he hates the thought of not knowing what’s going on. He needs to know what to expect. What to prepare for.

 

Maybe he can take a peek.

 

He reaches for the doorhandle.

 

“What the hell are you doing?” Wayne hisses, looking up from his position on the floor.

 

“Stay down,” Joker whispers back.

 

“You can’t go out there!”

 

Joker glances back. “Stay here, okay? I’m used to this stuff.”

 

Wayne’s face fills with fear. “What do you mean, stuff?”

 

He smirks. “Murder,” he says, just to get a reaction out of the playboy.

 

Wayne does not disappoint.

 

Wayne grips his hair, his face going white. “Fuckfuckfuck,” he whimpers, eyes squeezed shut. “I _knew_ I shouldn’t have come here.”

 

“Will you be quiet?” Joker hisses.

 

“This is all your fault.”

 

“My fault?” Joker repeats.

 

“If you hadn’t been there,” Wayne accuses him. “None of this would have happened.”

 

Does Wayne live in a fantasy world? Really, he’s going to miss this interaction once they part ways.

 

“You’re the one who punched me, Hot Shot,” Jack points out.

 

“But I couldn’t help it,” Wayne whines. “God, we’re gonna die—”

 

“For fuck’s sake, Wayne, get a grip,” he hisses, turning the doorknob. “I’m leaving now.”

 

“You’re leaving me,” Wayne moans. “I knew you would. I knew it.”

 

Jack thinks Wayne’s just being melodramatic at this point, but a part of him does feel bad. Clearly, Wayne has the courage of a mouse. “I’ll be back, but you have to stay here.”

 

“Promise?” Wayne’s voice wobbles.

 

“Yes,” Jack says impatiently.

 

Wayne nods shakily. “‘Kay.”

 

Although he feels guilty for leaving the injured man—a fact that shocks him, because he hasn’t felt emotion since leaving Arkham at all, let alone this much guilt—Joker peers through the crack in the door, glancing up and down the hall, and then at his feet.

 

A man clothed in black is on the floor, blocking the way out, blood pouring out from underneath his back like a quickly expanding coat of paint. He looks dead, but Jack can’t be sure and he has no reason to check and doesn’t want to waste more time. The man is clearly down. Seeing no one else, he pushes the door, moving the body out of his way, inch by inch. The door creaks when he’s nearly made the space wide enough for him to slip through. He freezes, looks both ways, and, seeing no one, steps out.

 

The lights flicker, and Jack realizes for the first time—the clinic has grown quiet. Too quiet.

 

A warning bell sounds in the back of his mind, and the instinctual feeling that has always kept him alive climbs up his spine. He relishes it, remembers it, and smiles. Anticipating anything now, he creeps forward, towards the only sound he hears. A man, speaking with authority, but calmly.

 

He’s not expecting a to see Dr. Thompkins cornered, two men with guns in front of her. Another man has his back to Joker and, what he can see of his profile, is scanning the other people in the room, watching for trouble.

 

If he has to, he can take out three men, even men with guns. And although he is a bit rusty with this sort of thing, it doesn’t scare him. This could be the chance he’s looking for—if he’s heralded a hero, maybe he’d finally get the Bat’s attention.

 

Excitement bubbles up in his chest. The dead man aside, this is perfect. He swallows a laugh, hugging the wall as he approaches the man, walking lightly on the balls of his feet.

 

“What do you want?” Leslie asks the intruders. “Someone else had to have heard the gunshot and called the police. I’m sure they’ll be here soon.”

 

“No, they won’t be,” the man closer to the doctor says. He’s packed with muscle, a stocky man with shaggy blonde hair to his ears, and eyes that snap with intelligence, despite the small scar. “There’s a robbery on Fifth—and we’ve disabled your security. I’ve locked the doors to this corridor, and I’ve men outside.”

 

“You’ve taken care of everything, it seems.” Leslie’s arms tighten around the shoulders of a frightened young girl of eight or nine standing with her. “But I have nothing of value here.”

 

“Oh, you have plenty. Drugs, which we don’t need. But also patients.”

 

“Patients?”

 

The man smiles. “I need information.”

 

“That’s all? You could get information from the computer, if you were so inclined—and you already killed a man for trying to help us—what do you really want?” Leslie asks through clenched teeth.

 

Man looks sharply at her, the slight scar at the corner of his eye dragging it down towards his cheek. “We need information about one of your patients that a computer can’t tell us. And I prefer to send messages on my own to get the job done right. His name is Spencer.”

 

“Never heard of him.”

 

“He was admitted last night. A giant. Six foot five. Shoulders as broad as the Brooklyn Bridge. An impressive fellow, but he’ll never look you in the eye. You couldn’t have missed him. Where did he go?”

 

Leslie’s expression shutters. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

 

“Are you sure?” Man asks, nodding to his Buddy. “Maybe he can convince you to cooperate.”

 

Buddy yanks the girl from Leslie’s arms and shoves a gun into her temple.

 

The girl cries out, her eyes pooling with tears. “Please, don’t hurt me!”

 

“What are you doing?” Leslie cries, stepping forward and creating a distraction.

 

Joker reaches the third man and slips his arm around his neck. He chokes him, cutting off his air until he slumps in his arms. He pulls him back into the shadows and deposits him on the floor. One down, two to go.

 

Joker retrieves the man’s gun, checking for bullets. Only one. Not enough to kill everyone. He glares at the foolishly, unprepared unconscious man and tucks the gun in the waist of his pants. He wouldn’t have hired anyone as dumb as that, except if he’d wanted him killed. Interesting.

 

“Psst!”

 

Joker’s heart sinks to the floor. Of all the—ridiculous—stupidest—does he want them to die?

 

“Joker!

 

Joker spins on his heel and shoots Wayne a glare, finger hovering by his mouth in what is probably a useless effort to get him to be quiet.

 

“You said you’d come back,” Wayne hisses.

 

He inwardly groans. Wayne is no more than twenty feet away, crouched low to the ground, his head against the wall as if he’d used all his strength to get there and is now too exhausted to move another inch.

 

It’s hard to even see Wayne, but there’s no way the idiots talking to Dr. Thompkins hadn’t heard him.

 

“Is that a—a—a gun?” Wayne asks, looking horrified.

 

“Seems we have visitors,” Man calls softly from behind him.

 

Joker pins Wayne with a baleful glare. He is going to kill the playboy if they don’t first. “Wayne,” he says through clenched teeth. “Shut up.”

 

“Who the hell are you?” Buddy asks, letting go of the young girl. She runs behind Leslie.

 

“Nobody,” Joker mutters.

 

“And him?” Buddy motions to Wayne.

 

Joker shrugs. “He’s hurt. He won’t cause any trouble.”

 

“Well, Nobody. If you wouldn’t mind, toss that gun,” Man orders, pointing his gun at him.

 

Sighing, Joker tosses it to the floor and kicks it towards Buddy, holding up his hands in surrender.

 

“Turn around slowly,” Man says softly.

 

Joker does what he asks, silently cursing Wayne, even though it looks like the idiot had passed out from exertion. His body is slumped against the wall, most of his face hidden from view.

 

“Can we, uh, do this another time?” Joker clears his throat. “I just remembered where my pal’s room was. I can be on my way. No harm done.”

 

“Wait.” Man’s gaze settles on Joker. “Don’t I know you?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“I’ve seen you somewhere. We’ve met, haven’t we?”

 

“Met?” Joker acts surprised, although he’s beginning to recall seeing Man somewhere before, too. Jail, maybe. He can’t put a finger on it. “No,” he says, lowering his voice and adding a lazy drawl. “Can’t say that we have. Never met you before in my life.” He chuckles. “Or any of you fine people.”

 

“You look familiar.” Man pauses, frowning as he eyes the otherwise empty corridor. “Where’s Egg?”

 

What a fucking lousy name.

 

Joker backpedals. “I should get back.”

 

“Wait.” Buddy points his gun at him, glancing at Man for guidance. “Shoot him?”

 

Man holds his hand up. “No—wait a minute. You’re the Joker.”

 

Joker suppresses a sharp panic and smiles apologetically. “No, but seriously, I get that all the time—it’s the hair, I think. But his is a bit on the greasy side, if you ask me.”

 

“Really,” Man says blandly.

 

“He should’ve changed shampoo a long time ago.”

 

Man’s gaze flickers over him in a wave of recognition. “No, you’re definitely him. Although, you are a bit different, I’ll admit. Could it be that you’re actually a new man?”

 

“I have a feeling you want to find out,” Joker deadpans.

 

Arkham, Joker thinks angrily to himself. What he would love to do to the shrinks in that place that had fucked with him.

 

“The hell—you even sound like him.”

 

“Boss?” Buddy asks, his mouth drops open as he stares past Joker.

 

“What, Danny?” Man asks, his gaze steadily assessing Joker.

 

Buddy points at Wayne, the billionaire’s head nodding forward where he sat, sprawled like he doesn’t have care in the world. “That’s Bruce Wayne! I recognize those shoes.”

 

Man shifts his gaze to the slumped figure. “Seriously, Danny? Shoes?”

 

“He always wears them. You know how I read up on that stuff.”

 

“ _The_ Bruce Wayne?” Man repeats, his mouth curling up into a smile. “Well, well. What do you know? Wake ‘im up.”

 

Danny walks over to Wayne and kicks, half-heartedly, the side of his chest.

 

“Oof,” Wayne breathes out, face flickering with pain. “Do you mind?”

 

“Get up. Or I’ll do that again.”

 

“Okay, okay.” Wayne peers up blearily, then stands and brushes off his pants, smiling albeit shakily. “W-What’s going on?”

 

“A party,” Joker mutters, eyeing his best escape.

 

Wayne’s eyes light up. “‘Love parties,” he says with a distinct slur. “Was just at one.”

 

Danny frowns. “Are you drunk?

 

Wayne teeters in place. “Uh-huh?”

 

“Imagine that.” Man’s smile widens. “Bruce _Wayne_! I can’t believe my luck. I’ve always wanted your autograph.”

 

Somehow, Joker doubts that.

 

“Autograph?”

 

Man frowns and pretends to check his pockets. “Oh, yes.” He hesitates. “Mind if we go to the room down the hall? I left my wallet there. There’s a picture inside you can sign.”

 

Wayne rubs sleep from his eyes.“I actually wanted to—”

 

“After the autograph.”

 

“F-fine.” Wayne shrugs. Danny pushes him into Joker as they start walking. “Finally,” he whispers from behind a hand. “Someone who appreciates me.”

 

“Are you really this stupid?” Joker mutters.

 

“I’m really this _popular_ ,” Wayne says, smugly.

 

He really is stupid. Or far more concussed than they’d realized.

 

Joker sees no chance for escape unless he saves himself. Or extreme violence. Violence that could possibly get Wayne killed.

 

Dammit. He can’t have that. Even if Wayne really is, in fact, a moron. He’ll have to think of something else, something that doesn't involve Gotham’s Prince dying on his watch. He has a feeling they’ll be used for ransom. Or, at least one of them. He—Joker —is expendable. Wayne, or his billions, rather, not so much.

 

Wayne slows to a stop, body swaying. Joker grabs his elbow, willing the fool to stay on his feet. “I seemed to have left something back in Dr. Thompkins’ office,” Wayne mutters, scratching his head. “Dammit.”

 

Man scowls. “And what was that?”

 

“Sorry,” Wayne says sheepishly. “I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s money. A lot of money.”

 

Man and Danny exchange a look. “Money?” Danny echoes.

 

“Yep.” Wayne says, looking pleased with himself. “I should go back and get it before someone else takes it.”

 

Joker remembers nothing of the sort with Wayne. What the hell is he playing at?

 

“Why bring money?” Danny asks.

 

“For that donation he’s making,” Dr. Thompkins interjects, holding the little girl tightly beside her.

 

Thompkins is no fool, and Wayne, although likely to get drunk later, is not drunk now.

 

They’re up to something.

 

Wayne nods, wagging his brows. “In cash.”

 

“Cash?” Man asks. “Huh.”

 

“Why cash?” Joker asks.

 

Wayne looks at him as if he’s hurt he’d even asked. “My image, that’s why. It will make a much better photo than if I’m holding a measly check.”

 

“Huh.” Danny wrinkles his nose. “That makes sense.”

 

Joker maintains a straight face, but he is, for once, very confused. Is the playboy actually trying to divert the men’s attention and be a hero?

 

“Will that be a problem?” Wayne asks Man.

 

Man’s mouth twists humorlessly. “Not at all. Danny,” he says to his partner. “Follow Wayne and the Joker. The good doctor and I will be right behind you, and I’ll shoot the girl if they give us problems.”

 

“A two for one deal, Boss?”

 

“Looks that way.”

 

oOo

 

Bruce barely makes it the rest of the way to Leslie’s office without tripping over his own two feet. He can’t make out a face, his vision as blurry as hell. His stomach feels like he’s out at sea for the first time. He thinks he might have sprained the same wrist he’d broken, thanks to his stupid idea to punch the Joker. His head is swimming—and everything sounds muffled, again.

 

The harsh reality is that Bruce has no idea what’s going on except for what he’s planned just inside Leslie’s door.

 

And he is only standing because the Joker caught him by the elbow.

 

He recognizes the guy in charge now, despite his blurred vision. He knows—or, rather, Batman knows him—all too well. Frederique, an outsider who rarely shows his face in Gotham. A wealthy but vicious man who likes to toy with some of the lesser criminals in the city. Criminals like Danny, and Spencer, who most likely owes Frederique a debt, with interest.

 

They reach the office door.

 

Bruce stops in his tracks. “M-maybe you should look first.”

 

Danny sighs. “Why’s that?”

 

“I think I’m gonna—“ Bruce allows the nausea that has been building in his chest slide up into his throat. He leans over and vomits, the rancid taste filling his mouth.

 

Danny wrinkles his nose and steps away. “Gross.”

 

Joker swears, clutching the back of Bruce’s shirt, keeping him on his feet as he is sick again.

 

This concussion is seriously cramping his style.

 

“Get it. Quickly,” Frederique clips out, motioning with a gun.

 

“Fine,” Danny mutters. “No monkey business, alright?”

 

“Yeah.” Bruce stumbles and falls to his knees, gasping for breath. “No—monkey—business.”

 

Joker steps back with his hands up.

 

Danny kicks Bruce in the ribs, pushing him onto his side.

 

Pain shatters his vision. “Fuck,” he says shakily. “Did you have to do that?”

 

“Where is it?” Danny demands, kicking him again.

 

Bruce bites back a cry. “Th-the desk,” he heaves out, when he catches a breath. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, breathing through waves of pain and darkness. “Envelope on top.”

 

The door creaks as Danny opens it. He disappears inside.

 

A moment passes.

 

Danny does not come out.

 

Bruce rolls on his back with a grunt, staring glassy-eyed up at the ceiling. He’s not sure what he’ll do if this doesn’t work. He can’t risk Joker getting involved and killing anyone, can he?

 

Speaking of the Joker. He is watching Bruce, his eyes guarded and strangely dark. He can’t tell what the man is thinking. He’s not sure he can try to understand—his head feels like someone had driven a sledgehammer into it. And he thinks he’s going to. Pass out. Pass—

 

Bruce opens his eyes with a lurch. Joker is standing completely still, as if he’s trying hard to be invisible. And Frederique? He just looks pissed.

 

“This shouldn’t be taking this long,” Frederique mutters.

 

Bruce licks his lips, sweat pouring off his face like he’s staked an afternoon claim in the sauna. Another minute passes, his eyes opening and closing, then opening once more with the grit and determination of his past training. Even though he feels like shit, he can’t black out again. People depend on him.

 

Frederique’s jaw clenches. He looks hard at Bruce. “If anything has happened to him, I’ll kill you.”

 

“I remember you now,” Bruce says roughly, modulating his voice to sound similar to that of the Bat’s.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“You’re the fucker that made me break my leg. I was forced to retire because of you and your gang.”

 

Joker’s head swivels back around. He stares at Bruce.

 

“What?” Frederique asks.

 

“I said,” Bruce spits out, dragging himself up off the floor. He grips the wall and stands, slightly hunched with his hand hovering over his ribs. He spits on the floor and glares at Frederique. “You’re the fucker that made me break my leg. The jewelry heist on Waverly. Your men killed a couple of cops, brought out the entire department like it was a block party. Like there wasn’t enough of them on my trail, already.”

 

Frederique’s face goes white. “What the hell are you talking about? I’m no cop killer.”

 

“No? Their families say differently.”

 

“B-boss?” A ragged whisper comes from behind the door.

 

Frederique steps past Bruce to push the door open, keeping one eye on Joker and Bruce.

 

Danny is on his side, creeping forward with effort, his arm outstretched, something small and black lodged into the side of his neck. His unfocused eyes glaze over. “S’thing hit me.”

 

Frederique reaches down and plucks the unusual weapon with two fingers. He turns it over as Danny grasps the doorway and hauls himself to his feet, shaking. “I d-don’t feel so good, Boss.”

 

“Hush, Danny,” Frederique says, inspecting the weapon.

 

Joker steps forward, his head cocked slightly as his eyes trace the telltale shape of a bat.

 

Bruce swallows hard. Meets Joker’s electric green gaze straight on.

 

His pulse thrumming like fire through his veins, he can tell from the flicker of emotion in Joker’s eyes, something not unlike accusation, the very moment he’s certain who he i—

 

Frederique blinks up at him. “What the—?”

 

Bruce doesn’t give him the chance to finish.

 

He charges forward with a snarl, taking Danny with them and disappearing into the room.

 

And, hoping, desperately, _ironically_ , as he slams Frederique onto the desk and starts to black out himself, that Arkham hadn’t purged all the fight from a certain psychopath.

 

oOo

 

Several hours later, Joker stands awkwardly inside Wayne’s hospital room, eyes fixed on his feet. He really shouldn’t be here, but he had to see if Wayne—the fucking Bat—will be okay.

 

The fight had been quick but brutal. Frederique had fought like a hellion, meeting Bruce’s hardy but diminished strength in his injured state. But so had Danny.

 

But, then again, so had he. He always stores a knife in his boot. A habit too ingrained for even Arkham to break.

 

He fights a grin. “So, Commish, you got that?”

 

“You’re testifying that Wayne—and Batman—took down these guys?”

 

Joker drags his gaze up to meet that of the commissioner. What did ol’ Gordo just say?

 

Gordon’s mouth firms. “Good thing the Bat was around and that the perpetrators had their stories mixed up.”

 

“But…” His brow furrows. That makes no sense. “I just told you I helped them.”

 

He has the blood on his knife to prove it.

 

“No one is going to say a word about your part in this.”

 

It takes him by surprise. “Why?”

 

He knows for a fact that Gordon hates his guts. All of Gotham hates him. Probably would love nothing better than to see him fuck up and return to Arkham. Even though he’d helped, he’d still committed violence.

 

Gordon looks at Wayne, who is deathly pale and still in the bed. “Either way, it would make too much of a fuss.”

 

Joker has to agree. Maybe now that he knows who the Bat really is, he should keep under the radar.

 

“Will he be okay?” Gordon asks.

 

Joker isn’t sure. The Bat’s weaker hand had been mangled during the fight, when he’d tried to compensate and revert to fighting—or not fighting—like Wayne. Joker winces, just thinking about that painful misstep, although Wayne had done so to maintain his cover. Wayne had also sustained several broken ribs and other internal injuries. He’d overheard Dr. Thompkins tell Pennyworth that once the cast was off, he’d be in therapy for months, the chance of regaining use of his arm and hand dependent on his grit and determination.

 

He doesn’t think Bats will handle that news of his hand that well, but, he thinks with a grin, he’ll gladly help when he can.

 

“He packs a hardy punch, believe it or not,” Joker says. “Never knew a billionaire with those kind of skills, before. Never knew a billionaire before, actually.”

 

Gordon’s moustache twitches. “He must have taken defense classes as a kid. Maybe after his parents died.”

 

“Possibly,” Joker murmurs, wondering if he’d finally put two and two together.

 

“Why were you here, again?”

 

Joker grins, ignoring the probing look Gordon gave him. “Wayne found me in an alley. Brought me here to get cleaned up. I owe him one—make that two.”

 

Might as well play up Wayne’s brief Good Samaritan act.

 

Gordon watches him for a moment, then nods. “I’ll just leave you, then.”

 

Once alone, Joker slips into a chair by Wayne’s bedside, hoping Jeeves doesn’t return too quickly. Talk about a wicked sense of humor. The old man won’t like that he stuck around after Bruce’s surgery, but now that Joker knows who Wayne really is—he’s not going to leave.

 

Ever.

 

His mouth twists into a wry smile. “Bruce Wayne, huh? Were you ever going to tell me, Bats?”

 

Probably not, but he won’t hold that against him. Much.

 

Whistling soon echoes down the hall. Pennyworth is back.

 

He reaches for a pen one of the nurses had left and uncaps it, wedging the top between his teeth before hastily leaving his Bats an important message.

 

“This isn’t over,” he whispers to Wayne when he’s done.

 

He leans over and presses a feather-light kiss to his mouth.

 

oOo

 

Feeling the brush of something soft across his lips, Bruce awakens with a groan.

 

“I see you’ve decided to forgo retirement, after all.”

 

Bruce’s eyes flutter open, but he closes them in annoyance against the overwhelming brightness in the room. He takes a moment to answer. Things are a blur, but he thinks….he thinks he’d been in a fight.

 

“It’s good to see you awake, Sir.”

 

He peers wearily at Alfred who is just coming into his room. “Wha’happened?” he struggles to say, his throat feeling thick and rough, like sandpaper.

 

“There’ll be time for that later, Master Wayne.” Alfred smiles, patting his hand. “Let’s just focus on getting you back to the manor, well and whole.”

 

Bruce looks at his other hand, weighted down by a cast. A fucking huge cast. Disappointment fills his chest. “Broken?”

 

Broken _again_?

 

“Quite, Sir. Looks like therapy will be in order.”

 

He sighs. Just great.

 

A cast is always the bane of his existence, no matter the injury or the timing.

 

He’s just about to ask for Leslie—he hates the painkillers she gives him—when he sees a phone number, scrawled on the side of the cast, along with this message—

 

 

_THE JOKR WUZ HERE_

_call me when you get back_  
_to your stuffy mansion, Bats_  
_we should chat_

 

_or sumthn_

 

 

—and smiles.

 

He memorizes the number and asks Alfred to cross out the Bat part.

 

He traces the loopy, happy lines of the letters with his good hand, touched by the gesture. He can’t remember anyone ever writing on a cast of his before. Or being so damn accommodating in a message.

 

He has a life of retirement ahead. And it looks like the Joker does, too.

 

Is he crazy? It’s the drugs, he thinks. Making him loopy.

 

Because or sumthn sounded different, entertaining—and something he’d very much like to explore.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I’d love to hear what you think! Much love! XX
> 
> And a special shout out to my friend, Gavin. Thank you for looking at this and offering your wonderful critique. :)


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